Visting Sara
by eliask
Summary: Hopper and El visit Sara's grave.


This is a two-part work. Chapter 1 is set in the summer after Season 2. Yes, El's still being "safe" this year, but I imagine that as the year goes on she will be allowed to go out more and more, as long as she's supervised.

Here is an excerpt from a poem to get us in the mood:

 _"How many are you, then," said I,_  
 _"If they two are in heaven?"_  
 _Quick was the little Maid's reply,_  
 _"O Master! we are seven."_

 _"But they are dead; those two are dead!_  
 _Their spirits are in heaven!"_  
 _'Twas throwing words away; for still_  
 _The little Maid would have her will,_  
 _And said, "Nay, we are seven!"_

-William Wordsworth, "We are Seven"

* * *

The car crunched over gravel, kicking up dust. Hopper shut off the ignition and stared out the windshield, memories rushing over him. He finally cleared his throat, picking up the bouquet of pink flowers beside him. "Ready, kid?"

El nodded solemnly. "Ready."

They got out of the car, the hot air gusting over them. After the first year, in which he had visited often, he came just once a year. To him, Sara's grave was always like this: hot, and spilling with sunshine. It was, however, a huge change from the air-conditioned car, and El blinked the sticky, hot air from her eyes. "She was sick in the summer," Hopper explained to El, who was covering her face from the sun with her hand. The bright light made her look even fairer than usual. He frowned, then dug back into his glove compartment, grabbing a hat. "Here, I – wear this."

He could tell El was trying hard not to roll her eyes but she dutifully put on the hat. Her curls had grown out, becoming wavier and looser, and now almost reached her shoulders. He tugged down on the cap's visor, making her glare at him in mock annoyance.

They started to walk, El following close behind him, the only sound the gravel under their boots and the sounds of distant cars and families further out in the parking lot. They soon stepped onto a cement path curtained by perfectly manicured grass, tall thick trees, and the short, marble headstones, fanning out over the rolling hills.

In his other hand, Hopper held a crushed, yellowed copy of the cemetery directory. He smoothed it out, following the names and dates with his finger. "This way," he directed after a moment.

They walked for a while, stopping every now and then to take a swig of water. Hopper knew he was heading in the right direction when he started to recognize the names on the grave markers. _Iris Gibby, 1921-1975; Thomas Platt, 1906-1977 and Emma Platt, 1904-1978; Curtis Stinson, 1899-1971._

He stopped. "We're here," he called.

 _In Loving Memory  
Sara Madeline Hopper  
1971-1978_

 _Beloved Daughter_

"We're here," Hopper said again, unnecessarily this time. He crouched down over Sara's grave, placing the bouquet over her headstone.

"Pink camellias," he said, half talking to El and half to Sara. He played with the blue hairband around his wrist. "See, pink's her favorite color. She has this little bike with pink streamers. God, when she got sick, everyone sent her so many flowers. All pink. Her hospital room was like a fucking florist." He swallowed, suddenly feeling contrite for swearing. "Sorry about that, Sara. I know you liked them. The smell was a lot for me." He chuckled, then became serious. "You were so sad when the doctor took them away. I know it's stupid, and the groundskeepers or whoever are just going to throw these away, too. But I know you deserve to have them. Since they're your favorite."

Sara's grave overlooked a small lake. Today, the heat made the lake shimmer and the wind formed small waves. They'd chosen this spot in part because of that lake. Sara loved to swim. _Water child_ , they'd call her. The pads of her fingers were always puckered.

El fidgeted with her hat. "Should I stay?"

Behind her, he heard a family approaching, and the sound of squealing and children. He shut them out. Even though he had El now, and he'd learned to tolerate – hell, even like – her friends, it was still hard to be around kids. Especially today.

"'Course you should," Hopper answered her. "I drove you all the way down here, didn't I?" He breathed out. "Sara would have liked you," he said. "You two would of have been best friends. Would've have been together all the time, making trouble. Or I don't know. Doing girl... _stuff._ Painting each other's nails. Makeup. Gossiping about boys. Watching soap operas."

In fact, it was very difficult to imagine his daughter at the age she should have been, at fourteen. She was forever seven-years-old, school spelling bee champion and storyteller. Forever at an age where she still loved to play with Dad.

"Like us," El deadpanned.

"Exactly," Hopper said, appreciating that. He'd watched his fair share of soap operas over the past two years, and heck, he actually enjoyed them, as long as El was there, too. And they'd done quite a bit of talking about boys, though he supposed _gossip_ wasn't the most accurate word for _arranging tutoring sessions with his daughter's boyfriend._

He still wondered about it sometimes. If taking in El, making her his _daughter_ , was a betrayal to Sara. In dark moments, he'd wonder if he'd traded one child for another. A child who had a childhood but would never grow up, for a child who never had a childhood but who deserved the world _._ And dammit – El had a bright future. He'd bring down the sky for her. He knew she deserved it not just because Sara had died at age seven and any concept of future had died with her, but for El's own sake. Not because she had merited it, though of course she had, but because a future was a fundamental human right. There was something healing about having her here with him now at Sara's grave. It was an acknowledgement of past and present, neither usurping the other. It just was. It soothed him, washing his fears away. His two daughters. Together.

"El," he said gruffly. "I'm really glad you're here, you know that?"

El nodded and smiled her small smile. She never exaggerated, and the concept of acting in certain ways to fit certain social situations baffled her. When she smiled, she meant it. "Yes."

"I mean..." He swallowed thickly. God, and he said words were hard for _her._ "Thank you."

She started to reply when they were interrupted. "Jim?"

Hopper turned around. He wished he hadn't. "Hey, there, Diane," he said, putting some false enthusiasm into his voice. He knew she'd see through it. He really didn't care.

"It's been a while. You look good. Smoking less?" Diane brushed a sticky piece of blonde hair from her eyes. Beside her, Bill stood there with a stroller, the baby kicking his feet inside of it. "It's funny running into you here."

What do you say to your ex-wife and her family on the anniversary of your daughter's death? "I'm here for Sara," he said gruffly. Diane hugged him; he patted her on the back. She pulled away, reaching into her bag and placed a bouquet of her own on Sara's grave. It was bigger than the one he'd picked out, with white and red flowers mixed in with the pink. He couldn't help the lump in his throat and the feeling of competition, wondering if his bouquet looked small and cheap in comparison, as if that cheapened the way he felt about her. Which bouquet would she have preferred?

"Sara loved flowers," Diane said softly. He couldn't disagree with that. Still, a part of him that corrected her tense: _Sara loves flowers._

The baby moaned, and Diane turned around, fussing over him. She pulled him into her arms. Hopper had never seen the baby before. He was bigger and ruddier than he expected. "He is so rambunctious today," she said, bouncing him. "Who is this?" she asked, not unkindly, towards El.

Hopper moved a bit closer to her, protectively. "This is my daughter, El," the name slipping out. He usually introduced her by her legal name, Jane, not just for her protection but to let her decide for herself if she wanted to share her preferred name.

Diane and Bill nodded at that, looking unsurprised. "How old are you, Elle?" Bill asked.

"Fourteen," she said.

They both nodded again. Diane's eyes shifted to Sara's grave and then back. "So...what grade is that?" Bill asked. "Sorry, it's been a while since we've been around big kids." He chuckled idiotically at that.

El looked confused at being called a _big kid_ , but she knew the answer to the question. In fact, she'd been practicing that one for almost a year. "I'm starting high school this fall."

" _High school_ ," Diane said wonderingly, and Hopper knew she was imagining Sara starting high school too. He knew she'd be excited about it – she was a smart kid, their Sara.

The baby was truly squirming in her arms now. "All right, I'll put you down," she told him. She placed him on the grass, where he toddled a few steps before tumbling forward. "Oh it's all right," Diane said to El. Hopper looked to El, catching her terrified expression. "That's how they learn. See, he's coming toward you now," Diane explained.

El stood there, ramrod straight and totally awkwardly as the baby switched to a crawl and made his way to her feet, planting himself there. Her reaction was almost funny if it wasn't also a little sad. She hadn't seen many babies, period. Not many of them in a lab.

 _El_ had been a baby in a lab once.

"You can hold him, if you like," Bill said. Diane was already coming over. She picked the baby up and held him next to El. El looked at her nonplussed, eyes scared.

Hopper started to defend her. "Hey, she doesn't want to – "

"Just hold out your arms like this," Diane directed, and he watched as El slowly took the baby from his ex-wife. When he was secure in her grasp, Diane took a step backwards. El gazed down at the baby seriously. Suddenly, the baby grabbed onto her hair, twisting it.

"Hey!" she exclaimed.

Bill and Diane laughed. "Pauly's a grabber," Bill said.

Diane nudged him. "Like his dad." To El, she said, "You want me to get him off you?"

Paul was already disentangling his fingers from her hair and was squirming again, and El looked at a loss. Diane took him from El and placed him back down on the grass, where he immediately started toddling and crawling around.

There was something symbolic about it, being here with his ex-wife and her new family, _their baby_ , and El. El holding a baby for the first time. They weren't all family, not exactly, but they were connected. Connected to Sara. He was suddenly glad that Diane, Sara's mom, was here. That Sara could see them all together like this, making silly jokes and cooing over Paul. It made the awkwardness worth it. Ultimately it was all for her.

Diane stuck her hands in her pockets, a nervous habit of hers. "What are you doing for lunch, Jim?" The wind whipped at her hair.

"We're just-"

"Eggos," El said.

Diane and Bill burst out laughing again. "She's _funny_ ," Bill said appreciatively. His expression became slightly more serious. "We brought a picnic, and you know how Diane is. She brings too much." Diane swatted his arm.

Yes, Hopper did know how Diane was. How she had been, when she had been his wife.

"Anyway," Diane continued. "When we're done. Want to join us?"

Hopper thought about that, joining them for a picnic on the anniversary of his daughter's death. He didn't have to look at El to know she was salivating at the thought – she might be a little thing, but she could eat. He nodded, watching his ex-wife's fat, happy baby crawl on the ground. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

They stayed there at the grave for a while longer, chatting and talking to Sara.


End file.
